


what do you think i feel

by singlemalter



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: M/M, Obliviousness, Sugar Daddy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:14:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21773713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singlemalter/pseuds/singlemalter
Summary: Toto loves to give. Charles is a little slow on the uptake.
Relationships: Charles Leclerc/Toto Wolff
Comments: 9
Kudos: 69





	what do you think i feel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [babypapaya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/babypapaya/gifts).

The first gift is cheap. It’s barely a _gift_.

At the airport in Japan, Charles queues up for a cup of coffee, a pitiful attempt to keep himself awake until he’s at the hotel. With a hood pulled over his head, he expects to stay anonymous.

Like almost everything in the past month or so, it doesn’t happen the way he wants it to. Instead, someone taps his shoulder from behind, and Charles makes no effort to hide his annoyance as he turns around. “What?”

“Sorry,” Toto fucking Wolff says, slightly embarrassed. Coyness looks good on him, Charles notes. “I just saw you were alone, I didn’t think it would be a problem to come and talk.”

“Oh, no, no, it’s fine,” Charles cuts in, stepping aside to let Toto join him in the line. “I thought it was someone asking for a picture or something like that. It’s no problem.”

“Of course, what a popular boy,” Toto teases. Charles’ cheeks flush red. “What are you having?”

“A black coffee. You know how diet restrictions are.”

Once they reach the balcony, Toto orders two doppio espressos and asks Charles to find them a table.

It’s only in his hotel room, sprawled across the large bed and watching Suzuka’s lights fade into quiet sleep, that he realises Toto never gave him the chance to pay for his own drink.

* * *

Three days before the race in Mexico, he ignores Mattia’s dirty glances and goes for dinner in the city. He’s out of championship contention anyway—might as well have fun while he’s fighting for third place. It’s well worth it; Pujol is a bizarre mix of haute cuisine and street food, but it’s one of the most enjoyable stops he’s made all season.

Halfway through his portion of mole, the maître d’ walks up to him, introduces himself—_such a pleasure to meet a rising young star_—and announces his meal is already paid for.

“Sorry, what?” Charles frowns. “I mean, please, the food was amazing. I _have_ to pay.”

“Oh no, no,” the maître d’ says. “I must admit, sir, I wasn’t aware of your presence until… well, a gentleman in another table asked to cover your check. He spoke highly of you.”

Startled, Charles looks around the restaurant. As composed as ever, Toto is across the room, eyeing him with a glint in his eyes, like he’d been waiting to be noticed all night long. He raises a hand and waves. 

“Um,” Charles says, waving back on autopilot, though his mind is blank. “Okay, this is fine. Never mind. Thank you.”

* * *

A week later, in America, someone gifts Charles a surreptitious box of chocolates. It must be from a worker in the paddock; the discreet packaging doesn’t suit the usual fan behaviour of trying to stand out from the crowd. Besides, no outsider could get a present to Ferrari that easily.

He wonders if Pierre’s taking the mick. No, it’s too convoluted, too smart for him. It can’t be Daniel, either; he’s the kind of guy who makes fun of his friends to their faces.

In the end, Charles resigns himself to curiosity. He’ll never know. It’s all right. 

* * *

Friendliness is normal. Hell, it’s common ground—Charles has rarely met any unkind personnel in the industry. But he’s not used to the type of unwavering support that comes in the form of petite women handing him flowers and saying _I’m just following orders, sir._

All of Guarulhos has their eyes on him as he walks the long path to his gate. When he boards the plane, a stewardess smiles at him. Everyone seems in on a huge, elaborate joke, and Charles can’t get rid of the feeling he’s missing something painfully obvious.

At home, he fetches a vase, fills it up with water, and plucks the flowers out of their plastic wrapping. That’s when he notices it: a card tucked under the filler greenery.

Charles,

I am sure you are in for some complicated talks in Maranello. Believe me, you know I have been through a similar situation, but not from your point of view. It is very stressful, of course, but you will be fine. Remember to keep your head high and work to continue being the great driver you are.

TW

_Fuck_, he thinks.

* * *

Regrettably, he goes to his best friend for advice, which is as good as asking a prostitute to administer his last rites. 

“I don’t get it. I just don’t.”

Pierre shrugs. “Maybe whoever she is, she just likes you a lot. You’ve had crushes before, you know how it gets.”

“Listen, if… _she_ had a crush on me, she would be straightforward. I know her,” Charles says and looks down, desperate to avoid being caught in his small lie. “I don’t know why I get so many gifts. I mean, they’re nice, but I don’t need money.”

“Oh my God,” Pierre says, stifling a laugh. “Sorry, I just—I remembered something.”

“What?”

“You know what this sounds like?” Pierre’s still giggling behind his hand. “There was this feature on TV5, right, about these women who go out with older men. Sugar daddies. Because they love to give them presents and things like that. For them, it’s like a sex thing—”

Charles hits him with a pillow. “Shut up!”

“I’m serious!”

“I know you are,” Charles groans, flopping backwards onto the bed and closing his eyes. A strange realisation dawns on him, and he’s not sure he likes it. 

* * *

Under the glittering Abu Dhabi lights, nothing feels real—especially not the gentle drag of Toto’s fingers over his undershirt, goosebumps blooming with every touch.

“You did great out there,” Toto says, murmuring despite their complete isolation, hidden in the cooldown room. “It wasn’t an easy drive. You surprised me many times over the season.”

The end-of-season team celebrations are elsewhere, far away from the track. Right now, it’s just the two of them, and that knowledge brings out a feeling Charles can’t name.

“Thank you,” he whispers, looking up at Toto, full of wonder and the same adrenaline he feels when he’s in the car.

He sees it coming before it actually happens: the slight tilt of Toto’s head, his hand on Charles’ jaw and neck, the tension between them like an elastic band about to snap. He prepares accordingly, closing his eyes and draping his arms over Toto’s shoulders, _fucking finally_.

Kissing Toto is a contradiction, too much and not enough at the same time. He’s overwhelmed by the slow slide of their lips pressed together, yet it’s all he wants to do for the rest of his life. “Yes, yes, _yes_.”

Toto laughs, a deep sound that Charles feels against his own chest, and God, it’s everything.

* * *

After the ball drop, Toto lifts Charles by the thighs and pins him against the windows of a hotel room full of tacky gifts. The floor is covered in bits and pieces of wrapping paper, and Charles already dreads cleaning it up. 

At this point, it’s a running gag, a game called _see how many frivolous presents Charles can take before he snaps_. But it still carries so much emotional value; as he looks out at the New York skyline—pressed firmly into the cold glass, his cheesiest playlist in the background, Toto kissing the nape of his neck almost reverently—tears run down his rosy cheeks and all he can feel is adoration, warmth, care. 

**Author's Note:**

> I DON’T EVEN KNOW AT THIS POINT, MAN.
> 
> For Jen, because she spawned this ship and I couldn’t keep my grubby hands off it. This is probably the worst fic I’ve ever written, because I don’t do plot, but I hope it did this ship a little bit of justice.
> 
> Title from _Ok Pal_ by M83. “What do you think I feel when I, when I'm kissing you?”
> 
> Pujol is a real restaurant in Mexico City. It’s very good, apparently. Their Mole Madre is the main attraction, so to speak, and it seems to be super old and refined. I don’t know anything about food.
> 
> Guarulhos is one of four São Paulo airports.
> 
> WHY ARE THEY AT THE TIMES SQUARE BALL DROP? I don’t know! I’m fucking gay!


End file.
